


beast of burden

by cherryvanilla



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: 2007-2008 NHL Season, Getting Together, M/M, Rookie Year, Roommates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-24
Updated: 2015-05-24
Packaged: 2018-04-01 00:33:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3999148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherryvanilla/pseuds/cherryvanilla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brent’s just walking back up the stairs and to his room after making himself a sandwich. He has Skype plans with Keith and doesn’t intend to stop just outside the half-open door to Johnny’s room, until he hears the words, “I think I’ve really got a thing for him, man.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	beast of burden

**Author's Note:**

> Amanda was the world's best cheerleader, once again, and basically wrote half of the kitchen scene/sex scene. You're wonderful, doll. Ferritin was a great beta once again. And they both said I should keep my last minute added epilogue in, so thanks <3

So far, living with Johnny has been pretty good. He’d first met the guy during the 2006 World Juniors. Brent had been home for the holiday, considering he still couldn’t play with his knee anyway. The kid was impressive, and more so with the calm and collective way he carried himself when Brent went and introduced himself.

“Givin’ any thought to Chicago?” Brent had asked him. 

“Giving a lot of thought to a lot of places, man. I’ll be honored to go to whoever wants me.” 

It was such a perfect, schooled reply. It was then Brent knew the kid was gonna go places, not just with his hockey, but with his entire demeanor. 

He’d seen Johnny again a few times during his draft year. He remembers thinking how mature he seemed for his age, how no-nonsense he was in the way he carried himself. The kid was already a golden boy (literally) in Canada, and Brent knew he’d been doing good stuff in North Dakota too. Johnny was touted around by Tallon during his interview in Chicago, and introduced to a few members of the team that were around for an optional practice. This time when they’d been introduced, the kid smirked at him. Afterwards, Brent had impressed upon some of the brass that, if it were his pick in the first round, he’d go with Toews. 

He’s pretty damn glad they listened, and he’d been the first from the team to shake Johnny’s hand after he was drafted, Brent and his parents there to support Keith. He’d been mildly surprised when Johnny turned down a shot at the big leagues for another year at UND. Until Brent realized it made perfect sense with the little he’d known about the kid. Anyone else might’ve jumped at the chance to get their feet wet, and maybe they would’ve floundered under the type of pressure that was being pressed upon Johnny even before the draft. Johnny taking his time, thinking it through, was the exact type of new blood this team needed. And when you mix that with the raw flash that Kaner brought, Brent finds that he is rather excited to be a Hawk this season. 

Johnny’s quiet for the most part (unless they’re playing video games and then he’s a fucking menace), eager to help out with chores (probably gets that from his mom: Brent met her briefly in Vancouver and then longer when his family came to help Johnny move in, and again when they'd visited in October. She seemed like a no nonsense kind of lady), and pretty easy to get along with. 

He’s also tired as fuck all the time and so tense Brent’s own shoulders hurt just looking at him sometimes. Brent gets it to a degree, but he doesn’t _fully_ get it. First year in the league, new city, all of that he can help Johnny with. But he never had the intense expectations facing him that Johnny did. No one threw around the words ‘next captain’ to Seabs before he was even added to the roster. It’s clear what Johnny’s being prepared for. Brent sees it in the way Savvy talks to him, sees it when LaPointe pulls him aside after morning skates, Johnny listening to him intently and nodding his head. 

Johnny tries not to show that tension in the locker room or on the ice. Tries to be completely together: holding his head high, putting his game face on as soon as he steps through the doors, be it at the practice rink or the actual one. 

Brent sees it, though. Sees it when they’re sitting on the couch, watching _Family Guy_ re-runs that make Johnny’s face crack with laughter, even while his body is still rigid. He sees it when they head back from home games, Johnny’s face pressed against the window of Brent’s car as he watches the lights of the city, his hand clenched in a fist, clearly thinking about how he isn’t putting up the numbers he would’ve liked yet. He sees it when he wakes Johnny up on the mornings they have practice (Johnny told him he’ll just sleep through his alarm if Brent doesn’t), the way he blinks his eyes open, face twisted and looking more exhausted than rested, before pulling the covers over his head and letting out a groan.

So he tries to make it easier on the kid. Cracks jokes, takes him grocery shopping rather than them just relying on solely take-out, tries out recipes and makes dinner a fun experience. They talk about movies and music and stuff Johnny would eventually like to actually see this new city that’s now his home, when he has the time, but he told Brent pretty much from the get-go, “All hockey right now.” And so they talk about hockey, too: share past injury history, break down plays, go over what works on the team and what flatout doesn’t. 

Brent figures he’s helping, even sees some light in Johnny’s eyes rather than pure tiredness. 

Until one afternoon in mid-November when everything changes.  
__________________________________________

Brent’s just walking back up the stairs and to his room after making himself a sandwich. He has Skype plans with Keith and doesn’t intend to stop just outside the half-open door to Johnny’s room, until he hears the words, “I think I’ve really got a thing for him, man.” 

He feels like an asshole for listening but — well, Johnny’s wound tight enough as it is already, with everything he’s been adjusting to. If he’s also dealing with liking dudes, then — that can’t be very easy. 

Brent’s own bisexuality was something he discovered when he was Johnny’s age, and while he’s made up for some lost time he definitely hasn’t done it with guys as much as he’d like to, limiting himself mostly to the off-season. 

He also doesn’t go around telling people out of nowhere, so it makes sense that Johnny hasn’t come to him with this. 

"He’s — god, Danny, he’s fucking everywhere, you know? All up in my space. ‘Let’s make dinner together, let’s watch a movie together, let’s go over the power play _together_. I’m a _walking_ hard-on.” 

Brent’s stock-still now, frozen up against the wall. 

He hears Johnny laugh. “Oh fuck you, man. Anyway, enough of this shit. Tell me about Tri-City.” 

Well. He supposes that’s another reason Johnny hasn’t come to him with this. 

Shit.  
__________________________________________

Brent’s never let himself think about it, is the thing. The kid’s got a lot on his plate. And okay, whatever, maybe Johnny’s only 3 years younger — maybe he’s not a _kid_ , but Kaner calls him the same thing sometimes and that’s just laughable, considering Kaner’s birthday is still a few days away. 

Johnny seems it sometimes, though. There’s cracks in his facade, uncertainty that seeps through. Johnny’s the oldest young person he knows, but at times he’s just the youngest in general. 

So no, Brent hasn’t allowed himself to think about it, despite the instant attraction he felt. He had to tamp it all down initially because it felt too weird. The beats were already running with stories about Brent sharing his place with Johnny. Just last month Sharpy had come in with copies of one such article, announcing how sweet it was that Brent was “taking Johnny under his wing” and asking where they were registered for the wedding gifts. Johnny had blushed pretty damn hard at that. 

Brent’s prided himself in helping Johnny, being a shoulder for him to lean on, but maybe he _hasn’t_ been helping. Maybe he’s just being confusing the fuck out of the kid. 

He hasn’t allowed himself to think about it, but now Brent can’t do anything else _but_ that. So he’s ridiculously grateful the circus trip is starting. It means two weeks without Johnny in his space at night, even though they’ll still sit together on the plane and on the bus. Maybe Johnny will let Duncs switch with him. 

Not like it will matter much. It’s there now. The seed has been planted, the knowledge that Johnny would be… into this. Into him. Brent can’t do anything but let it grow, his mind consumed with images of himself thumbing at Johnny’s lips, of Johnny’s mouth parting on a gasp, of Johnny licking at Brent’s fingers, eyes dark on Brent while he pushes them in, making it known that he wishes it were something else. 

Brent comes so fucking hard, biting down on his wrist to stifle the moans and gasping into the darkness of his room. 

Two months. He barely made it two months before getting a crush on the kid who is totally going to be his captain one day. 

Brent’s gotta be a sick fuck or something because that thought? That’s the one that gets him off more than anything else combined.  
__________________________________________

“Hey, Seabs!” Johnny calls, hurrying to fall into step beside him. It’s after practice on Kaner’s birthday. He’d gotten a face full of shaving cream courtesy of Willy and lots of general ribbing from the team. Johnny had congratulated him on them finally being the same age, ruffling Patrick’s messy, shaving cream-laden curls beneath his palm while Kaner squirmed away, still wiping at his face and lips, grumbling about how he’d thought it was whipped cream or he wouldn’t have tasted it. 

Brent was already fully dressed when he heard rumblings of Johnny and Kaner possibly going out for lunch, so he’d taken off to the parking lot. Except now Johnny was chasing after him. 

Brent felt personally betrayed that they’d come back to Chicago in the middle of the circus trip, but he supposed it made sense given few days break they had before the next game. The team got in late Saturday from Detroit and had off yesterday. It had been Brent’s first full day and night with Johnny in nearly a week; he didn’t feel all that proud that he’d holed up in his room for most of it. Dinner last night, which was normally a kind of fun affair — Johnny chopping shit while Brent manned the stove — was a bit stilted and awkward, the two of them moving out of sync, as if time spent apart made them forget the rhythm they’d already gained.

“Hey, kid,” Brent says now, not looking at him. “Thought you had plans.” 

He sees Johnny shrug out of the corner of his eye. “We’re all going out tonight for his birthday anyway. Need a break from the guy.” 

“Right,” Brent replies. Things turn awkward again as they walk to Brent’s car. It wasn’t too bad this morning during their commute together. Johnny’s always quite in the mornings, so Brent hadn’t had to worry about awkward silences. They exist now, though. 

“Is there something wrong, man?” Johnny asks after they’ve thrown their bags in the trunk and are seated. 

Brent’s hand stills on the ignition. “Huh?” 

“Feels like you’re pissed at me,” Johnny says, voice tight. 

Brent sighs, starting the car. “I’m not,” he says, pulling out. 

Johnny snorts. “You’ve barely talked to me on this whole trip, Seabs.” 

“I’m fuckin’ tired,” Brent snaps. “You of anyone should understand that.” 

Brent doesn’t mean the words to come out so harsh. But they obviously do, because when he risks a glance at Johnny he’s staring out the window, jaw clenched. 

“Whatever,” Johnny spits back. 

Brent bites his lip and turns on the radio. 

They don’t talk the rest of the drive. Johnny breaks the silence after they get in the door. 

“If I did something, you can fuckin’ tell me,” Johnny says, before heading to his room and closing the door harder than necessary. 

Sometimes he really doesn’t need a reminder that Johnny’s still a teenager.  
__________________________________________

They take Kaner to Club Paris, because it’s about time he experienced it. He’s in heaven, bottle girls giving him the star treatment. He shouldn’t be able to drink, but enough of them frequent the joint that it isn’t a problem. Johnny’s in a pissy mood, sulking in a booth, nursing his beer, eyes not on anything in particular from what Brent can tell. 

“S’wrong with the rookie?” Duncs asks, knocking his shoulder into Brent’s. They’re in the booth next to Johnny’s. Brent’s been trying (and failing) not to watch him. 

“Beats me,” Brent says, raising his beer to his lips. “I’m not his keeper.” 

Duncs laughs. “Some people might disagree.” 

Brent turns his head, frowning. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

Duncs shrugs. “Means the kid’s kind of your shadow. Looks up to you.” 

Brent swallows some more beer, suddenly uncomfortable. “I’m nothing special.” 

“You’ve got two years in the league on him. That may as well be a lifetime. You’re showing him the ropes, man.” 

“So I’m a mentor,” Brent says flatly. It’s not the first time the thought crossed his mind. Hell, Tallon said as much when Brent suggested Johnny live with him. He’s not sure why it puts such a bad taste in his mouth, now. 

Johnny’s “thing” for Brent is probably hero worship, he thinks, clarity forming in his mind. It makes sense, the pieces falling into place like a jigsaw puzzle. Johnny’s overwhelmed, a little lost in a big city, already having been touted as the next possible captain before he even officially signed. He’s searching for some connection and Brent’s an easy target. It’s pretty simple for Johnny to mistake what he’s feeling for something more. And it’s not like his “walking hard-on” comment is some sign of something more. He’s 19; Brent was the same way at that age. 

He looks at Johnny, takes in the way he picks at the label of his beer, watches him give a half-hearted smile and shake of the head when Kaner comes over and tries to get him out on the dance floor with the two girls that are by his side. Their eyes meet then, before Brent can look away. Johnny’s widen a little before shutting down. Brent watches him lick his lips and palm at the back of his neck, raising his bottle to his mouth and tearing his gaze away. 

Brent swallows hard. 

It doesn’t matter what Johnny feels or doesn’t feel. They’re teammates and Brent’s never done anything with a teammate before. It’s not a dynamic he’s ever wanted to fuck with and it’d be really ill-advised to start now. 

That being said, he really needs to stop thinking about what it would be like to lick the beer off Johnny’s lips. 

__________________________________________

The next morning Brent's up early. They'd gotten in late and there was no practice today, so he resents being conscious right now but gives in after tossing and turning in bed for ten minutes with sleep falling further and further away. He pads downstairs and into the kitchen to put the coffee on and is still barely awake, rubbing at his eyes, when he heads back up to grab a shower. He has to pass Johnny's room on the way. The door's usually closed at night, Brent always knocking before entering and waking Johnny up on mornings they have practice. Today, though, it's cracked open. Just as Brent's about to pass he hears a moan. He feels like he's experiencing déjà vu, frozen outside Johnny's doorway. He hates himself for peeking inside, but he also can't really help it. 

There's Johnny, covers kicked off, sheets tangled low around his legs as he fists his dick roughly. His head is tossed back, revealing the long line of his throat. He's got his bottom lip pulled between his teeth and his mouth is dropped open, dumbly.

He looks fucking gorgeous.

Brent's eyes are sealed on the way the head of his cock disappears between the curl of his fingers, the way he uses his other hand to roll his balls restlessly in his palm, his feet planted on the mattress, knees bent. 

"Oh god, Seabs," Brent hears, the words wrapped around a long, throaty moan. His eyes widen, thinking Johnny's talking to him, but no. Johnny's just… fuck. Oh fuck.

Brent tears his eyes away and hurries down the hall as quietly as he can. He doesn't even wait to get in the shower. He just shoves himself back against the bathroom door and sticks his hand in his boxers where his cock is suddenly aching. It doesn't take long, not with the images going on in his mind. Johnny jerking off, sure, but more than that: the two of them on Johnny's bed, kissing hard, rocking together, Brent bending to suck him down while Johnny gasps prettily above him.

He fucks into his hand and comes all over his fist, biting his lip hard so as not to shout Johnny's name.

Brent thunks his head back against the door, dazed from the sudden lust and rush of his orgasm. He peels off his boxers, tossing them in the hamper by the sink, before turning on the water for the shower. 

His head hurts trying to reconcile last night's conclusion with this morning's revelation. If this is actually some hero worship thing, then it’s pretty clearly sexual as well. But it doesn't matter, Johnny's still a teammate. And it can't — it just can't happen.

But they also can't continue on with unnecessary tension. Which means Brent has to say something.

He'd rather stick a needle in his eye, to be honest. 

__________________________________________

“Hey uh, kid,” Brent says, standing in the doorway to the kitchen. 

Johnny’s finishing up a huge bowl of cornflakes. The guy eats so much damn cereal, it’s ridiculous. He goes through a box a day sometimes. 

“Hey,” Johnny says glancing up at Brent. His cheeks are a little pink. Maybe from the flush of —

He shakes his head. 

“Uh,” Brent says again. He crosses his arms over his chest. Humor. That’s how he can approach this. Duncs is always saying he’s hilarious. 

Brent cracks a lopsided smile. “So uh, we’ve all got needs, eh. But maybe close your door if you’re gonna —” he trails off, making the international sign for jerking off.

Johnny’s pink cheeks deepen to flat out red and Brent’s gotta look away when the embarrassment starts to show on his face. 

This was admittedly a bad game plan. 

Johnny’s throat works. “Did you — um — you didn't hear anything, did you?"

Brent can’t lie about this, is the thing. His whole reason for bringing it up was to get them to _this_ point, where they talk about it. So he can’t play this off, he can’t. 

He stares at his feet, palming the back of his head. “Uh, yeah.” He looks up quickly, saying, “But Johnny, it—” 

Except Johnny’s already up and moving, tossing his plate into the sink and shouldering past Brent with a muttered, “Jeez,” and some other words that definitely are not English. 

Right. That went well. 

__________________________________________

Johnny stays in his room all fucking day. It’s a complete reverse of Brent from Sunday. If this is how Johnny felt then he doesn’t blame the kid for calling him out after practice yesterday. 

Brent feels tense and nervous. He calls his mom, he calls his brother, he plays a ton of Call of Duty. It’s about 6 o’clock, which is when they normally have dinner if there isn’t a game. Brent’s paused the TV, is about to get off the couch when he hears the snick of a door and Johnny’s feet on the stairs. Johnny pads into the living room barefoot, dressed in a black ‘Hawks hoodie and sweatpants. He looks so fucking comfortable and Brent just — wants. 

Johnny walks to the couch silently, sitting at the other end of it and folding one leg beneath him.

The air between them is thick with tension, but Johnny — Johnny looks determined. He’s staring down at his hands, jaw tight. Brent feels off balance and is about to say something, anything at all, when Johnny raises his head, eyes intent. “I want you,” Johnny says. 

Shit. 

“Listen, Johnny...”

Johnny holds up his hand. “No, uh. I’m embarrassed that you — heard that. Saw that,” he says, a gorgeous flush spreading across his face. “Or whatever, but it’s true. I — want that. You.” 

“It’s natural,” Brent says, trying to slow his heart from racing. “Hero worship, gratefulness. You’re taking on a lot right now, man. No one’s first year is a cake walk.” 

Johnny’s jaw tightens even more and he looks at Brent cooley through those long eyelashes. “Don’t placate me, dude. That’s bullshit.” 

“It’s not,” Brent insists, turning a little to face Johnny, tucking his own leg beneath him. He needs to shut this down. Now. Can feel himself weakening everytime he looks at Johnny’s deep, wide eyes. 

Maybe some white lies are necessary, after all. 

“And uh, I'm flattered, kid, I really am. I'm just not into it.”

Watching Johnny’s open, earnest, determined face shutdown is like the brightest light burning out. 

“Oh,” he says quietly. 

“There's plenty of other fish in the sea, right? You’re young.” Brent winces at his own pathetic drivel. 

“Right,” Johnny says, sounding a little numb. He stares down at his hands again, lip pulled between his teeth. “So, uh. Sorry, man,” he says, raising a shaking hand up to scratch behind his ear. “For coming onto you like that when you’re straight and all. I thought maybe — uh. Anyway. Won’t happen again.” 

Brent goes cold. He shouldn’t let Johnny believe that. Regardless of how much this can’t be a thing, Johnny still could use someone to talk through this shit with. Could use someone to lean on. 

“Don’t, uh, worry,” is all Brent says. 

He feels like the world’s biggest coward when Johnny walks away with a small smile that doesn’t even come close to meeting his eyes.  
__________________________________________

Brent’s grateful when they’re back on the road the next day for the rest of the circus trip. He and Johnny sit together on the plane again, because this awkwardness needs to dissipate and keeping things like they used to be is best. Stuff still seem a little tense, but it’s a long season and Brent figures they’ll get over it soon enough. If he thinks about Johnny while he’s trying to get to sleep at night — about his moles, his crooked teeth, his too-sweet smile — well. It’s a long season. He’ll get over it soon enough. 

He hopes. 

The trip ends and they’ve got a few days off before facing the Lightning mid-week. Still, Brent’s surprised when Johnny goes out Monday night, saying he’ll be back later. The kid can do whatever he wants, but after a long trip like that — and with how tired Johnny’s been with the adjustment to the big leagues in general — it’s surprising. 

Brent heads into bed at 11. He’s awoken around midnight by voices that are trying, and failing, to be hushed. Male voices. 

Brent tenses immediately. A few minutes later, his fears are realized. The apartment had been otherwise silent, so any sound at all sounds magnified in the night. The moans coming from Johnny’s room? Definitely magnified. Brent curses his paper thin walls. 

He frowns hard, trying to reel in his anger at Johnny being so reckless as to — what? Pick up some random dude at a bar or club? Brent tamps down his irritation and pulls his iPod and earbuds out of his bedside drawer. He blasts the music, settling back into bed and closing his eyes. But he’s apparently a masochist and can’t help hitting pause every few seconds, listening to the soft moans, the feverish words. He squeezes his eyes shut when Johnny lets out a loud, sharp, cry. The kid isn’t even trying to be quiet. Brent puts his music back on and tosses and turns. 

He barely sleeps. 

When Brent drags himself out of bed the next morning all his ire comes back. He walks into the kitchen and Johnny’s already up, in just his boxers like Brent and pouring coffee. There’s no sign of his guest. 

“You still have company?” Brent asks, voice tight. 

Johnny doesn’t look away from his task. “No,” he says, voice flat. 

Brent’s hand tightens into a fist. He breathes in and out deeply from his spot in the doorway, before saying, “You can't do that, kid." 

Johnny turns around slowly, arching one eyebrow. "Do what?" 

Brent's jaw tightens. "Pick up —" he swallows hard before clearing his throat. “Pick up guys like that. Are you crazy? You're being primed as one of the faces of the NHL, man." 

"What do you care?" 

The muscle in his cheek twitches and his voice softens. "I'm just looking out for you, Jon."

Johnny shrugs. "You said yourself there's plenty of fish in the sea. I'm young, right? I _should_ be getting laid a lot."

Brent shakes his head, biting his lip. "You gotta be — you gotta be careful, johnny" 

Johnny's eyes flash. "Why? Kaner was making out with two girls the night of his birthday and no one said shit to him. and I can't take a guy home, discreetly? That's… that's fucking bullshit, man. That's not fair." 

Brent sighs, scratching at his palm with the nail of his thumb. "You're right, Jon. It's not fair. I know. I get it."

Johnny scoffs and rolls his eyes. "Yeah, you get it. Sure."

Brent sighs again, raises his hand to run his fingers through his hair. "I'm bi, Johnny."

Johnny blinks, his jaw dropping open. "You're — what?"

"I'm bisexual. So, I get it ok? It's fucked up that I can't just pick up some dude at a bar and bring them back here. But I can't. I have to think about the team."

"Why didn't you — why didn't you tell me last week? Why'd you let me believe you were —"

Brent drags his hand over the back of his neck, looking at the floor. 

_Because it was easy_ , he thinks to himself. Easier than the truth. "I dunno. I'm sorry." 

When he looks back up, Johnny just looks sad now. "This kinda makes it worse, you know." 

Brent frowns. "Why's that?" he asks softly. 

Johnny laughs, but it's a sharp thing. He shakes his head, eyes downcast. "It's fuckin' dumb but — I liked it more when I thought you were straight and that's why you obviously weren't interested. I mean. Most people are. Straight, I mean. But uh, knowing you actually do, uh, do guys but aren't into me — I mean, I probably sound like a fucking narcissist but yeah. Uh." Johnny's rambling, scratching at the moles on his cheek. Brent's too endeared by him using words like narcissist to really process anything else. Until he does and —

There it is. The real reason he didn't come out to him that night. Brent knew Johnny was just enough of a teenager to take it to the 'but why not _me_ , then' place, if Brent had. And then Brent would’ve had to lie to his face. 

"Johnny," Brent says quietly, and shit, he's really going to regret this. "That's not it, kid. That's not it at all."

Johnny looks at him, and there's this raw hope in his eyes that makes Brent want to kiss him senseless. Shit, he's in so much trouble.

He watches Johnny's throat as he swallows, his Adam's apple moving beneath his skin. "Do you, uh," Johnny starts, before flicking his tongue at his lips, a nervous action. "Does that mean —" 

Brent cuts him off. "What it means is I don't do this with teammates. I barely do this at all, during the season." 

"Oh," Johnny says softly. "But if you did. Do this with teammates, I mean."

Brent laughs quietly. "I'm not gonna pump your tires here, kid. You know you're hot."

Johnny's face twists, even as Brent sees some color rise to his cheeks. His favorite thing about Johnny so far is probably his insane confidence yet embarrassment at praise. "So... that's all though, then. My looks." 

Brent snorts. "You're kidding me right now," Brent says, taking a few steps closer and shoving at Johnny's shoulder, without heat. "Don't be an idiot. You're hot, yeah. But you're also passionate, have a great heart. You’re good with the guys and so fucking in love with the game to the game. Smart and dedicated, and —" 

Well. Apparently Brent _was_ gonna pump his tires. 

Johnny's staring at him now, with those big brown eyes that Brent sees every time he closes his own, and fuck it all, he can't do this. Fuck his rules, they were made to be broken.

"Brent," Johnny whispers, voice rough, eyes so large, like a baby deer in headlights. 

Brent steps right into his space, loving that he's a little taller. Loving that Johnny's gotta look up at him, even at 6'1”. 

He puts both hands on Johnny's shoulders, kneading the muscles there, and ducks his forehead to meet his, inhaling deeply. Johnny's breathing in and out, breath fanning across Brent’s face in uneven puffs of air. "Fuck, kid, we shouldn't do this," he whispers. It’s a feeble plea, a last ditch effort. 

Johnny licks his lips, and Brent groans, cupping Johnny's face in his hands and kissing him, just a gentle slide of his mouth against Johnny's. 

Johnny lets out a soft sound in the back of his throat and Brent sucks in a breath. He drags his hands over Johnny's cheekbones, beneath his ears, down the column of his throat before tracing the pattern back again. Johnny's mouth falls open on a gasp and Brent takes the opportunity to inch his tongue out, flattening it against Johnny's bottom lip. 

Johnny grips Brent's arms and tilts his head, sliding his tongue against Brent's. The kiss turns frantic, heated. Brent's grip tightens on the back of Johnny's neck, while Johnny's hands scrabble up Brent's back and then down again. Brent grabs the backs of Johnny's thighs and lifts him easily onto the counter, moving between his spread legs to kiss him. Johnny let’s out a muffled “mmph” and winds his arms around Brent’s neck.

"Oh, god," Johnny mumbles against Brent's lips, biting at him. 

"Jesus, kid," Brent gasps, planting kisses over Johnny's jaw, down his neck. "You've been driving me fucking crazy." 

"Yeah?" Johnny pants against him, his legs hooking around Brent's thighs. "Thought you hated me, man, you were acting so weird." He groans when Brent sucks a kiss to the base of his neck. 

He drags his hands up and down Johnny's back, squeezing at the firm muscle. "I heard you," Brent admits, murmuring the words into Johnny's skin as his tongue laps at the sweat that's pooled in the dip of his neck. "On the phone a few weeks ago, to your friend." 

Johnny tenses, wiggles away from Brent's mouth. "You were — what? You were listening to my phone calls?"

"Hey," Brent says softly, kissing along Johnny's jaw. "No," he says. "I wasn't — wasn't like that. I just heard you say you had a thing for me, and that was it, I swear."

Johnny swallows, lets his head fall back against the cupboards. "That's why you were acting weird." 

Brent sighs, putting a little space between them, adjusting his dick in boxers. "Yeah," he says. "Kinda freaked. I don't do this, man, I told you. But uh, hearing you say that… I couldn't fuckin' think of anything else." 

Johnny reaches for him, pulls him back in. "I've been thinking about you like that since I moved in," he says quietly, so honest. Brent swallows, run his hands up Johnny's arms, letting them settle on his shoulders. "It's not some fucked-up hero worship or something, Seabs, it's —" he trails off, and Brent searches his face.

"It's what, kid?"

Johnny swallows, lowers his eyes. "It's more."

Brent leans back into him, hips flush to Johnny's spread thighs, and tilts his chin up with one finger. "Hey," Brent says, waiting till Johnny meets his eyes. Brent smiles at him when he does, and watches the tension in Johnny drain away a little. "C'mere," he whispers, drawing Johnny in for another kiss. 

Johnny goes and they kiss dreamy and slow, the frantic pace from before settling. "I like you a lot, kid," Brent says into Johnny's mouth, as Johnny breathes hard against him. "S'why I tried to stay away." 

"This is better than staying away, don't you think?" Johnny says, dragging his fingertips down Brent's chest and stomach. Brent swallows hard when Johnny dips his fingers into his boxers. 

"Johnny," Brent warns, and Johnny smirks, all that confidence suddenly flowing back. 

He tugs at the waistband, dragging his fingernail against Brent's torso. Brent groans and takes his lips again, hard this time, desperation surging back. Johnny opens beneath him beautifully, fisting his hand the elastic of Brent's boxers and pulling until Brent practically falls between his legs. Johnny's own rise to wrap around him again, heels digging into the backs of brent's thighs. 

"Fuck, Seabs," Johnny moans. "Want you." 

"Tell me," Brent groans, sucking on his lower lip. "Tell me what you want, Jon." 

Johnny's goes red from his neck to his cheeks. "I want — I want —"

"Tell me," Brent whispers.

"Your mouth," Johnny says in a rush, then covers his face with his hands. 

It should be impossible to be so damn charmed by someone when Brent’s this hard, but he is. He noses up Johnny’s neck, tugging on his earlobe. "Why's that so hard, kid? Sounded like what was happening to you last night." 

Johnny groans, going even redder, if possible. He takes in a shaky breath as Brent kisses down his neck again. "I'm, uh, not good at talking about shit like this." 

"Well that's gonna change if we're gonna do this," Brent says into his skin. "I wanna know what you like, what's ok and what's not. Communication, man. It's important."

"Ugh," Johnny says, laughing a little now, his hands mapping up Brent's chest and then roaming back down, squeezing over his hips. "Gotta be so adult about it, eh." 

"I'm about to have your dick in my mouth, Jon," Brent says, his voice rough. "That's not to be taken lightly."

Johnny's hips jerk forward, as if on their own accord, and his nails bite into Brent's skin. "Oh, god, Seabsie." 

“That's ok, then? If I suck you off? Right here on the counter?"

Johnny swallows hard and nods quickly, lifting his hips when Brent tugs at his boxers. 

Brent pulls them so they're half exposing Johnny's ass. He wants his hands all over that thing, to be honest. But it can wait. Right now, he wants to give Johnny what he wants. Wants to make him beg for it. He still can't believe he's allowing himself this but — well, he hasn't liked someone this much in a while, honestly. 

Brent pulls Johnny’s dick from his boxers and ducks down, licking at the head. Johnny's thighs tense and he groans, one hand resting on Brent's shoulder. "Oh my god," he groans when Brent's lips close around the head.

Brent feels a rush of satisfaction at how broken Johnny sounds already. He wants to make him forget all about that guy from last night. Wants to make this the best blowie Johnny's ever had. 

Johnny's hips come up off the counter and Brent holds him back. He swallows him down, listens to Johnny whine, his fingers tightening in Brent's hair as Brent works his tongue and lips down his shaft, keeping his mouth tight around Johnny’s length. 

"Fuck, Brent, _please_ ," Johnny begs. "Don't stop."

Brent hasn’t done this in a while, but it’s sort of like a bicycle. He buries his nose in the soft trimmed curls of Johnny's groin, inhaling his scent as he takes him down his throat, thick head of his cock bumping the back of of it. He tastes incredible, smells incredible. And the sounds he makes as Brent deep throats him, holding his hips down with both hands while Johnny's hold on his hair tightens to a death grip, are some of the hottest things Brent has ever encountered. 

He gags a little, his eyes going wet when Johnny tries to buck up a little. He holds Johnny’s hips down, relaxing his throat before working his mouth up and down Johnny’s shaft again, humming around his cock when Johnny groans and tugs at his hair again. 

"Seabs," Johnny gasps. "Fuck, Brent, I'm gonna —" 

He pulls up, leaving behind a trail of saliva, pumping Johnny's dick with his hand, suckling at the head. “C'mon, kid. Do it," Brent rasps, voice like he's been swallowing sand or, well, _cock_ , before closing his lips around him again, keeping the suction shallow. 

Johnny groans and tenses, and Brent feels his dick start to pulse against his tongue as he comes. Brent pulls off just enough that Johnny's come catches his jaw, his neck, and he hears a loud thunk as Johnny's head hits the cabinets. 

"No concussions, kid," Brent deadpans. 

Johnny lets out a shaky laugh, his hand stroking weakly down Brent's face, before settling on his shoulder and squeezing. "God. God, that was —" 

Brent grins smugly. "Amazing? Incredible? Way better than the dude last night?"

Johnny makes a face and throws up an arm. "Don't remind me about that."

Brent unfolds, cracking his back. Johnny's arms wind around his neck and Brent leans forward, pushing his dick along the v of Johnny's thighs. "Okay," Brent whispers. "Why don't we go to my room and forget it." 

Johnny nods, swallowing hard. He hops down off the counter, pulling his boxers back up as he goes, Brent trailing after him down the hall. Johnny crowds him as soon as they get in Brent’s room, sliding his fingertips up his sides. 

"Hi," Brent says, and Johnny ducks in to kiss him.

"Hi," Johnny mumbles against his lips. They kiss for long minutes, Johnny's hands roaming all over Brent's skin, like he's mapping out a route. Brent shivers into the touches, Johnny leaving goosebumps in his wake. Brent rocks against him, dragging his cock against the crease of his thigh, relishing in the moan it elicits from Johnny. 

“C'mon, kid," Brent whispers, as he brushes his lips over Johnny's bare shoulder. "Touch me."

Johnny groans and slips a hand between their bodes, cupping Brent's dick through his boxers. "Fuck," he manages. "You're — wow."

Brent chuckles, rolling his hips and burying his face in Johnny's neck. "Yeah," Brent says. "I get that a lot."

“Jesus.” 

Brent snorts. “You’ve seen it in the locker room.” 

He hears Johnny swallow. “Not — not _hard_ , man. And I could feel it against me earlier, but — christ." 

Brent laughs again, feeling the back of his own neck flush. It takes a lot to make him blush, but Johnny — well, Johnny being this into his dick is pretty damn nice. “I’m a grower, not a show-er.”

"Well, c'mon, I wanna see," Johnny says, suddenly eager, tugging at the waistband of Brent's boxers. Brent laughs and bats his hands away. 

"Relax," he says, stealing another kiss before taking a step back. He hooks his thumbs into his boxers and slides them down slowly. Johnny's mouth goes a little slack when Brent's cock bobs free, curving up against his belly.

"Fuck," Johnny breathes. 

Brent feels himself flush more. "Watch it, kid, gonna start to think you only like me for my body," he teases. 

Johnny laughs, dragging a hand over the back of his neck and licking his lips. 

"So, now what?" Johnny asks, and god, Brent could name a million things he wants to do to him.

"Whatever you want. Your show."

Johnny arches one eyebrow. "Oh, I see, so _you_ don't have to talk about what you want. Just me, huh?" Johnny's voice is dry as fuck and Brent smirks. Kid's serious as all fuck when it comes to the game, but he also rocks some nice wit. 

"Obviously," Brent says back, just as dry. 

Brent sits down on the edge of the bed and spreads his legs, crooking a finger at Johnny. He reaches up and strokes his fingers down Johnny’s face, over his lips. "You wanna suck me off?"

"I dunno," Johnny says against his fingertips. "Do _you_ want me to suck you off?" 

Brent could totally get used to this kind of playfulness in bed. 

He rolls his eyes and spreads his legs more, his cock bobbing up against his stomach. "What do you think, princess?" 

"Say it," Johnny says, licking his lips. "I wanna hear you say it."

Brent raises an eyebrow and can't help but smile. "I want you to suck my dick, Jon. C’mon, get your mouth on me," he says. 

Johnny lets out a long, soft groan and folds to his knees beautifully. Brent leans back with one arm on the bed, his other moving to squeeze Johnny's shoulder, letting his fingertips stroke slowly against his feverish skin. He moans when Johnny wraps his hand around the base, tugging Brent’s cock away from his belly and towards his own lips. 

Brent bites the inside of his cheek, hard. Jesus, Johnny's gorgeous, and when his tongue touches the tip of Brent's dick, he has to clench his fists in the sheets lest he tangle them in Johnny’s hair and use him exactly the way he wants to. "Fuck, Johnny, c'mon, do it."

Johnny pulls back, jacking him slowly, just staring at Brent's dick, lips parted and wet with spit. And then he ducks his head and licks slowly up the underside from base to tip, before fitting his lips around the head and sucking hard. 

" _Fuck_ ," Brent gasps, neck tipping back briefly, before he forces himself to watch again. Johnny looks so good like this, his lips stretched tight around Brent's dick. He thrusts his hips, then feels guilty when Johnny gags a little. "Shit, sorry, babe, I didn't —"

Johnny just takes him down again. 

Brent's embarrassed by how close he is already, but the intent determination on Johnny's face — the way he moves his hand with his mouth, trying to take him down as much as he can, visibly relaxing his throat and widening his mouth; it’s a sight to see. Johnny’s fucking beautiful, sucking cock like he plays the game: all focus and passion. Brent breathes hard through his nose, fingers clenching and unclenching, thighs tense. 

"Johnny," he warns, shoving gently at his shoulder. "Johnny, I'm gonna come."

Johnny fucking _grins_ around his dick and just keeps sucking.

"Oh, jesus christ," Brent breathes out in wonder. He removes one hand from its death grip on the sheets, lifting it shakily to Johnny's mouth, feeling the way his lips are stretched around his cock. He squeezes his eyes shut and bites his lip so hard he tastes blood, needing to make this last a little longer. Just a —

Johnny moans around his dick, the vibration going right through Brent, lighting him up inside. Brent opens his eyes again, watches his cock disappear between Johnny's lips. He's got half of Brent's length in his mouth and — and Brent's gonna come right down his throat. He doesn't know what he wants more: Johnny swallowing his jizz or seeing it coat his lips and face. 

He doesn't have any time to think about it, because he's already bucking up off the bed, coming hard into Johnny’s mouth. Johnny swallows what he can and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand to catch the rest. 

Brent's still gasping as Johnny pulls off. His mouth looks used, his lips shiny and red, tongue swiping out to catch some of the come that's spilled down his cheek. 

"Shit, kid," Brent breathes, unsteady fingers dragging down Johnny's cheek, pressing against the corner of his mouth where it's still wet and sticky. "I usually last longer, I swear." 

It normally takes Brent a long time to come from a beej, honestly. Most of the girls he's been with tend to get a little bored after a while, finishing him off with his hand while kissing him. A lot of the guys he's been with tend to be more into it, the way he shoves his dick down their throats and makes them choke. Sometimes those two extremes flip flop, but the staying point is usually: it takes a lot more for Brent than just a mouth on his cock. For all intents and purposes, this 19 year old kid shouldn't have made him bust a nut this fast. 

"Come up here," he says, and Johnny crowds in against him, lets Brent kiss him breathless. "That was —  
wow, Jon. You, uh." He clears his throat and runs his hands through Johnny's hair. "You do that a lot?"

Johnny flushes and shakes his head. "I've only given like, three blowjobs in my life"

It makes sense, Brent supposes. It's not like the kid's technique was expert or whatnot. He's got a great fucking tongue and pretty bow lips, but objectively Brent knows he's had better suckjobs since he started having sex at 14. Which means, he realizes a little uncomfortably, it probably has more to do with —  
Brent's reaction to Johnny himself. That and this crazy chemistry they seem to already have. 

It's too fucking much for Brent to even think about at this hour in the morning. He pulls Johnny in again, hums softly against Johnny's lips, kissing him slow and deep. Johnny's tongue matches him, stroke for lazy stroke, and when Brent realizes he’s tasting his own come in Johnny’s mouth it makes his dick give a half-hearted twitch.

Brent tugs on his shoulder and starts scooting backwards on the bed, Johnny following suit, settling over him as they kiss. Brent's dick is still hanging out of his boxers and he reaches between them, gingerly tucks himself back in before rolling them both onto their sides. 

Johnny's panting a little against his mouth. Brent had been ready to suggest a nap but — fuck, he's hard again against Brent's thigh.

"I was gonna say we should take a nap, but maybe we should take care of this first, huh?" Brent asks against Johnny's neck. Johnny nods quickly, rolling his hips against Brent's.

"God," Brent breathes, slipping his hand between them, tugging Johnny's dick out the slit of his boxers. "Shit, Johnny," he says when Johnny's dick leaps beneath his fingers as he drags them over the crown, teasing along the shaft. "Love how much you want this," Brent says, pressing their mouths together, a slow drag of lips. 

“Do you always — oh, _fuck_ talk this much in bed?” 

Brent snorts. “Kind of,” he admits, pulling Johnny’s bottom lip between his own while thumbing the head of Johnny’s cock, spreading the pre-come downward. He lets go of his lip with a loud, obscene sound. “That bother you?” 

Johnny shrugs one shoulder, their eyes meeting, faces so close. “Just, uh, surprising. You’re not the most talkative guy, man.” 

Brent fists Johnny’s dick roughly, stroking with intent. His head falls back on a gasp. Brent ducks in, sucks a kiss at the base of Johnny’s neck. “I like hearing what people like, what they want. The way I make them feel.” 

Johnny laughs but it comes out broken, shaky. “Ego trip much?” 

Brent laps at the hollow of Johnny’s throat, perfect dip that seems like it was made for his mouth. “Makes the sex better,” Brent says, voice low. “You’re saying you’re quiet?” 

“Huh?” Johnny mumbles, which Brent supposes is understandable. He’s sped up the pace of his hand and Johnny’s hips are jerking now, his breathing even more rapid and uneven. “Uh, no, I. But just uh, the standard moans and dumb words.” 

“Yeah, I heard some of that last night,” Brent says, licking up Johnny’s neck. 

Johnny groans, his hands coming up to twist in Brent’s hair, holding him there. “Oh, jeez.” 

Brent smiles against his skin. “Walls are thin as shit in this place, kid. Surprised I haven’t heard you jerk it before I saw you.” 

“Do it in the shower, usually,” Johnny mumbles, fucking up into Brent’s hand now, hips pistoning, bottom lip pulled so hard between his teeth that it’s blanched. He’s so fucking close, Brent can already see the warning signs. “Years of uh, oh _god_ , road roommates. Habit, oh _fuck_. Seabs.” 

“Yeah,” Brent murmurs, tightening his grip around the head, making his strokes shorter and harder. He noses along Johnny’s jaw, fitting his mouth over the hinge of it before capturing Johnny’s mouth again. “Come for me, Johnny,” Brent pants against his lips, feeling Johnny shake beneath him. “C’mon.” 

Johnny lets out a sharp cry and spasms against him, letting go of his own lip to bite down on Brent’s instead. Brent whines against him and strokes him through the aftershocks of his orgasm, until it becomes too much and Johnny’s twisting his hips away from Brent’s still-moving hand. 

Brent raises it to his mouth, licking. Johnny watches him as he does it. His cheeks are ruddy, a gorgeous apple red. His eyes are all pupil, and his hair is matted against his forehead. He’s obscenely pretty. 

He licks Johnny’s come off his fingers, groaning at the taste of him. Johnny’s still got one hand in Brent’s hair, while the other strokes restlessly up and down Brent’s back. He pulls Brent to him, kissing him, tasting himself on Brent’s tongue. Johnny groans against his mouth and Brent lets out one of his own. 

He pulls back, pressing one more kiss to Johnny’s lips, before resting their foreheads together. “Nap or cleanup?” 

“Nap,” Johnny says, yawning in Brent’s face. 

Brent chuckles. “Okay, kid, nap it is.” 

Brent turns onto his back, raising his arms over his head. He isn’t expecting Johnny to stay on his side, to rest his head on Brent’s chest and throw an arm around his waist. 

But he also finds he doesn’t mind it, not one bit.  
__________________________________________

When Brent wakes up again, he’s spooned behind Johnny. It freaks the fuck out of him, to be honest. But it also means his dick is pressed up against Johnny’s ass and — well, Brent’s seen that thing in the locker room. It’s nice, to say the least. 

Except he can’t even properly enjoy it, because everything is crashing down on him now — the fact that he did this, _they_ did this. Nothing’s changed, he still shouldn’t... 

“I can hear you thinking,” comes a low, grumpy mumble.

Brent kisses the back of Johnny’s neck, unable to help himself. “One of us has to.” 

Johnny scoffs and turns around in his Brent’s arms. He raises one eyebrow. “You gonna chicken out here, Seabrook?” 

Brent laughs, startled. “Are you _daring_ me to date you, Toews?” 

Johnny juts his chin out, face smug. “What if I am?” 

Jesus, the kid gives him whiplash. Shy and a tad insecure one minute, cocky and smug as all fuck the next. 

Brent scrubs a hand over his face, blowing out a breath. “I don’t think this is what Tallon had in mind when he promised your parents I’d take care of you.” 

When he takes his hand away he’s greeted with Johnny’s frown. “I’m not a child. You’re not some grandpa.” 

That’s true. He slept with a 19 year old over the summer, even. It has nothing to do with Johnny’s age and everything to do with him feeling like he’s got a some sense of responsibility here. That he was trusted with something and is now — being greedy. 

“And besides,” Johnny continues, his knee knocking against Brent’s as he shifts a little, propping himself up on one elbow. “You’ve been great, man. Showing me around, taking me shopping, helping me learn recipes and shit. So, I mean, you’ve already done the shit you promised.”

“I suppose,” Brent says, not entirely convinced. 

Johnny rolls his eyes. “And hey, if we uh, do this… you wouldn’t have to worry about me picking up dudes in public.” 

Brent’s laughter feels punched out of him. “Jeez, kid, you’re quite the charmer, eh.” 

Johnny flushes, the tips of his ears going red. It’s fascinating to watch. He scratches the back of his neck. “I mean, I don’t actually want to,” he mumbles, looking down at the sheets. “Pick up guys.” 

Brent’s heart trips in his chest. “No?” he asks, voice barely a whisper. 

Johnny shakes his head, meeting Brent’s eyes. “Meant what I said earlier. I, uh, I’m really, really into you, man.” 

Brent feels an intense pull of fondness, deep in his chest. He reaches his hand out, strokes one finger down the side of Johnny’s face, pushing the pad of his finger against Johnny’s jaw. 

This isn’t the smartest idea Brent’s ever had, but it’s also not the dumbest. He spent most of his teenage years thinking with his dick. He spent the past three years thinking with his head. 

Maybe it was time he started thinking with his heart. 

“Don’t make me regret this, kid,” Brent whispers, before tipping Johnny’s head up with his finger and slotting their lips together. 

Johnny’s hands slide up to Brent’s neck, holding him there while they kiss. 

“I won’t,” Johnny whispers against his mouth. It’s his confident, would-be captain voice. 

Brent doesn’t doubt him. 

_____________________________________________

_Epilogue_

“Johnny. Jon, get up.” 

“Go away,” Johnny mumbles, before sleepily throwing a pillow in Brent’s general direction. 

Brent laughs, before bouncing on the bed. He’s found more creative ways of waking Johnny up since they got together a few months ago, although he also hasn’t always had to, given the knee injury Johnny suffered. Johnny’s back though, and Brent honestly missed playing with the kid. He also got a lot of shit, being called Johnny’s bodyguard in the locker room for the two fights he got into “protecting Johnny’s honor” (according to Sharpy) last week. He couldn’t help it, it was just -- pure instinct. Johnny, for his part, found the whole thing stupidly hot and has basically been sucking Brent’s brains out through his dick non-stop. 

Now though, he doesn’t seem to care one thing about Brent or his dick. 

“Seabsie, I’m serious,” Johnny groans, pulling the other pillow over his face. 

Brent tugs it out of his grip, throwing it aside. “Oh, I know you are,” he grins, bending down, nearly pressing their noses together. “Time to get up though, Princess.” 

“Ugh,” Johnny says, shoving at Brent’s shoulder. “Did you eat a turd sandwich for breakfast?” 

Brent rolls his eyes. “Shut up, Mr. Serious.” 

He kisses Johnny, bad morning breath and all. Johnny groans into it despite himself, rolling the two of them over, slowly becoming more and more awake. Regardless of Brent’s best efforts to get them to practice on time, they’re very nearly late. 

__________________________________________

Later in the locker room, Johnny bitches at Brent for the sloppy passes he was feeding him during practice. 

“Calm down there, Mr. Serious,” Brent says, smirking. 

Johnny flips him off, scowling, but Brent’s never been happier. 

[end]

**Author's Note:**

> The article I refer to does exist, but I took liberties on when it came out -- moved the date up a month. Yes, Kaner did get a face full of [shaving cream](http://blogs.chicagosports.chicagotribune.com/icing/2007/11/feeling-their-p.html). 
> 
> Tazer did say he met Seabs a few times prior to the draft. I've created a timeline [here](http://monalisasnmadhatters.tumblr.com/post/119687757439/a-tazer-seabs-pre-hawks-timeline). Yes, part of that 'Mr./Captain Serious origin story is the [real deal](http://monalisasnmadhatters.tumblr.com/post/119716946214/it-started-with-brent-seabrook-who-i-lived-with). Full [primer](http://monalisasnmadhatters.tumblr.com/post/119712608674/jonathan-toews-and-brent-seabrook-the-captains) for these two is here, if you're interested. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
